| Heather
Gildroy Girl Liquor |
|
|
|
We were traveling
through the streets, driving on a July sun, past the beggars and street
performers, past the crowds at the ballgame, through the shadows of the
enormity of downtown. Cigarette lit between my lips, her feet on the dash,
toenails painted red matching the shade of her shirt. We had the top back,
letting the breeze run its easy fingers through our hair, over our cheeks,
move with us on our languid summer day in the city.
Carrie, short blonde hair messy, was a loud crashing movement of energy,
always late, a delicious shot of girl liquor that always had me in trouble.
We had known each other for three months. We met while out one night,
friends of friends, or something like that. Bodies sticky from dancing,
drunk, my shirt was in her fist and she pulled me into a dark corner.
And so it went. Morgan and Carrie.
We made our way to our park. It's a park where we can lie under the willow trees, lazy branches fanning drowsily over our blanket in the rhythm of the Sunday traffic and leisurely gait of a passerby's barefoot, dreamy stroll. Setting down our thermos of champagne, we unrolled our blanket, ridding our feet of our shoes like eager children ready to jump into a swimming pool. She looked over at me and winked one of her laughing brown eyes, while lending me her hand to help her to the blanket.
"You know one of these days we are going to get caught drinking in the park,'' she said, mocking my fear of encounters with the police.
"No we won't. Look at those kids getting high,'' I said pointing to a group of teenagers huddled together, glancing around nervously while passing a joint. "Besides, it would be all your fault!''
With that, a playful wrestling match broke out, ending with a sharp crack to my head. I received the dutiful kiss to point of injury. Resting her forehead to mine, warm gusts of breath lending the fresh smell of her gum, I kissed her. I closed my eyes, taking in some of the mint with the silver slip of her tongue. I'm tumbling down a hill in a far off memory of lovely weather, a friend elicits raucous screams of chortling laughter, the innards of my belly tingle in delight.
"I love you.'' The soft sweep of eyelashes tickles my cheeks. I open my eyes. I felt the underlying seam between us pull and unravel. She heard my hesitation and I felt it.
"I love you too.'' My words came out hollow, from miles away, from the looming shades of late afternoon. The maddening vibrato of some listening birds tore through the moment, gathering it up in a sound, then collapsed us into silent reflection.
A long time we lay there, saying nothing, arms draped limply across each other, letting the words hang in indecision before us. I love you. That statement, packaged thick with obligation, a commitment to recite it, repeat it, belong to it, belong to her, engage in the forward progression that would be us.
I sat up, pulling her close to me, untangling a stray leaf from the spectacular mess of blonde. I lit a cigarette and stared into the dizzying twirl of white smoke, to a place where the waters of two oceans merge and the first rays of dawn fill the sky with preeminent colorings of morning. The warm form, snuggly secured against my chest, gave a restless twitch and it was time to go.
On the way back to her apartment, we let Miles Davis tell us stories about the memories of a smoky, jazz midnight. We were in no rush. Casual strides of lingering afternoon, honey-toned streets and smiles, we paused at lights rather than making hasty dashes through. I felt her taking secretive glances my way, feeling the crease of where her words made a deep impression, thumbing a solitary flaw on the travel-ravaged seat. We talked of comfortable things, staring out our own windows at any available distraction.
I remember a vacation to San Diego when I was six years old. My brother Preston and I had the choice of going to Disney Land or Sea World one more time before we flew home. That morning I awoke to the news that Preston was sick, and my parents had decided we would go to Sea World. The buzzing anticipation of another day spent shrieking on fantastically scary roller coasters had vanished. It wasn't that I wanted to go to Sea World less, because each destination presented delirious childhood satisfaction, it was not having the choice that disappointed me.
A cautious distance of thought kept our eyes carefully averted to the bloom of the city's nighttime interior. We pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building. She expected an answer, Disney Land or Sea World, love or a simple good night. Either of which, would campaign the start of silent guessing games as to the complicated notion of authentic love.
I tried to say it. I tried, but the words were covered in a distant, dry doubt.
"I had a really good time today. I'll give you a call tomorrow and we'll go have lunch.''
"Call me after two because I have a couple of appointments in the morning.''
"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow.''